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<title>Crisp Shirt, Silver Foil Memories by Voodoosgirl</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24336601">Crisp Shirt, Silver Foil Memories</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodoosgirl/pseuds/Voodoosgirl'>Voodoosgirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Black Widow (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Guilt, Introspection, Memories, Poetry, Prose Poem</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:54:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>504</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24336601</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodoosgirl/pseuds/Voodoosgirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha remembers someone from her past</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Crisp Shirt, Silver Foil Memories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                                       </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>In the settling quiet of night, sleep overtaking most of the world surrounding, murmured whispers intermittent, soft lilt of a Russian lullaby distant soothing a child into dreams. Natasha letting shoulders slack, head cradled by a cold glass pillow, legs drawn up on the bench, utilitarian blanket as a cover hailing childhood sparseness. Embracing that time when the past crawls back to the surface, nights endless without sleep or dreams, the needs of a life lived in the light shoved aside by history’s ghosts.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her gaze slipping over the Widow curled opposite, awkward tucked to the corner of the bench. A mirrored image of herself, feet drawn up a blanket wrapped snug around her form, sprinkled random with the crinkled silver foils of the chocolate they had shared. Natasha dropping feet to floor not wanting to see herself in the old woman, not even in the curl of a restless sleep.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sokolov’s chest rise and fall gentle, appearing asleep, muscles twitched erratic, a ruse easily taught and used for the uneducated eye. Natasha too seasoned, too wary to fall for the game. Not trusting her counterpart, not words or oaths, or even her seeming drunken state.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Taunts and accusations replaying, their maneuvers dredging memories long-buried, heart twinging mixed feelings; schoolgirl adoration tainted dark with guilt and shame. Trust given youthful innocent in the beginning, a young girl taking a pasty-white hand offered as if nurturing, crisp white of shirt’s cuff, faint aroma distinct bay rum, a crown permanent inked to the finger toying playful with her palm.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>No reason not to believe parents reassurance smiles given all around; no tears shed at their goodbyes. Love and faith insidious killed by the Red Room’s embrace; hope replaced with icy veins when the truth of her betrayal rose fleeting to the surface of awareness.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Natasha allowing dark-edged images to float rancorous through her mind, a life held rigid in the routine of her training freed brief and incongruous when the crisp white shirt came to visit. Moments stolen in a suite, her Madame hovering near, the man’s statements rumbled coarse affection, “Are you well? Are you a star? Have you killed a man today?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her answer obedient without elaboration, “Da. Da. Nyet.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Natasha’s final day, gun trained steady in too young of a hand, aim precise. Cold-framed seeds of doubt buried deep beneath her emptied expression staring at a hooded figure bound seated across the room.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Standing apart, crisp shirt offsetting the dark inked tattoo, the man deferentially treated, an ominous observer to the testing of her mettle. Cold eyes glinting pride, lips quirk of a near smile, when her target fell dead-weight to the floor, red pooled evidence of her completion.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A single silver foil-wrapped candy palmed discreet in a hand as her benefactor passed by, the crown tattoo finger tickling her palm. His gaze never veering in her direction, parting words spoken impassive to the air beyond her shoulder, “Your mother is proud of you today.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Natalia Alianovna Romanova never saw Ivan Petrovitch again.</p>
</div><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(Photo by Allef Vinicius on Unsplash used with permission)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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